Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Seeing Stars

Have you ever been to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor? As the city’s premier tourist attraction, it draws thousands of visitors each year. The area is home to the National Aquarium, Harbor Place, museums, dragon paddle boats, shopping, restaurants, the lesser known World Trade Center Institute, and some fabulous people watching. When I was a child, forced to visit my father a few times a year per the divorce decree, I loved going to the Inner Harbor. It sure beat playing with the three toys my dad kept in his basement for our infrequent visitation.

In all the many trips to the Inner Harbor, though, he never allowed us to tour the USS Constellation. The USS Constellation is an old sloop-of-war, a sailing ship, and to me, it was the symbol of Baltimore. The ship is moored at the edge of the Chesapeake Bay and looks the same as it did when I was a child, at least on the outside, the glossy black and yellow exterior reminiscent of the state flag colors; other than that, it was just another maritime treasure, and more of a national one at that. What I wanted more than anything was to see what it was like on the inside, below deck. For some reason, my father, an avid sailor with his own sailboat, never took us aboard. What a selfish prick.

 
When my family went to visit Baltimore recently for spring break, we had to make some decisions about what we wanted to do at the Inner Harbor. We only had one full day for tourist stuff since we were going to drive to Washington the following day, and number one on my list of must-see attractions was the USS Constellation. My family didn’t really understand what was so damned important about that boat, but I insisted on seeing it. By the time we arrived at the Inner Harbor, I had talked it up so much there was no way we were going to miss it.

We purchased tickets to tour the boat, which, I might add, were quite reasonable. If that was the reason my father denied us the experience, then he was a cheap bastard in addition to being the aforementioned selfish prick. We boarded the vessel, and explored the top deck, which smelled of old wood and gunpowder. The gunpowder is because every day, a tour guide dressed like an extra pirate from “Peter Pan” demonstrates how to fire a cannon. Lucky for us, we had arrived only a little while before that demonstration was to begin, so we occupied ourselves by pretending to be the king of the world at the bow until it was time to gather around the gangly Mr. Smee near the cannon.

The tour guide told us he would talk for a little while about the weapons used aboard the USS Constellation before firing the cannon, and he wasn’t kidding. He went on and on about the size of the cannons and the weight of the cannons and the dangers associated with the cannons. He paused a few times, once to tie his shoe, and by the time he got around to the actual demonstration, my entire family was swaying, not with the motion of the water, but with the sleepy tedium caused by his monotonous droning. Luckily, the sound of a cannon firing was enough to wake us up, but not, as my younger daughter S pointed out, enough to warrant an almost twenty minute wait.
As the small crowd dispersed, we worked our way below the main deck. All the serious cannons were located here, along with several warnings about low head clearance. At 5’4”, which is an exaggeration, I don’t tend to worry about such things, but I enjoyed watching my tall husband and older daughter ducking under the beams overhead. We worked our way down another level to the main living quarters of both the officers and the regular seamen. I love to say seamen.



Hanging from the overhead beams were hammocks, one after another, looking more like an art installation than sleeping arrangements. At the stern was the infirmary, which housed swing-like hanging beds for the sick or injured, along with a rudimentary pharmacy and a scary little operating table. You could almost see the piles of limbs from the many amputations that probably took place in that area of the ship. It’s moments like those that make me believe that ghosts might be real.
On the other end of the ship were the officer’s quarters, which were much nicer than a bunch of hammocks and some old blood-stained hanging cots. The officers had their own dining table, bunks, desks, and yes, even bathroom facilities. In the lavatory area was a sign indicating the area used as a toilet, as well as another reminder of the low ceiling.





I leaned over to get a better look, because seriously, what is better than looking at a ship’s head from the mid 1800’s? Speaking of head, I whacked mine on a low beam while peering into the toilet. Not just a little bonk on the noggin, mind you, but the kind where you black out for a few seconds and your family rushes up to make sure you are okay as you try not to crumple on the floor. All I wanted to do was see where they went to the bathroom; I didn’t think I deserved a concussion for my curiosity. After my husband checked my scalp for blood and my pupils for equal dilation and reaction to light, he and my daughters continued to look around while I stayed close to one side of the ship and tried not to cry.

After the throbbing stopped, we descended to the bottom deck, the ceiling of which was so low we all had to walk hunched over like we had kyphosis. The cargo hold of a ship from the 1850’s is a dark and scary place, with old wooden beams and casks and probably skeletons and who knows what else hidden down there.  I don’t remember much else about the boat, except that by the time we left it, my head almost felt normal.
Even with the head smack, I still think it was worth the admission price, really everything I wanted it to be. I wonder if my dad hit his head many moons ago, and that’s why he never took us to see it. Which means that in addition to being a cheap bastard and a selfish prick, he was potentially also a clumsy ass. And I learned a lot too, about the rich history of the last sailing ship commissioned by the US Navy, and also that when a sign says to watch your head, you should.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Twitcher: Someone Who Likes to Watch and Study Birds

When I suggested to my family that we take a trip to Baltimore, I shouldn’t have been surprised that they didn’t all stand up and shout hooray. Baltimore is not exactly a top ten destination in America; in fact, it’s not even in the top fifty. But it’s my hometown and only an hour from Washington D.C., and I wanted to go. I wanted to visit my aunt, but I also wanted my kids to see some of the fun stuff that I remember from when I was a kid visiting my dad. Maybe they'd think it was fun too.

After a grueling nine hour drive, we arrived at my aunt’s house in Pikesville, a predominantly Jewish area of the city, around dinner time. While we waited for her to come home, we sat in her living room and relaxed. My older daughter, E, looked at the front window and announced, “Hey, Mom, there’s an orthodox Jew walking down the street.”
Now, before you get all bent out of shape, remember that my family lives in the Baptist-centric South. It ain’t every day we get to see an orthodox Jew. We are members of a reform Jewish temple and the girls attend religious school, but we don't know anyone who keeps Kosher or speaks anything other than dirty Yiddish words. You might also want to remember that we as a family aren’t known for our subtlety, filter, or tact.

We all plastered our faces to the window to watch this man in his black suit and large-brimmed black felt hat walk down the street. All except for my husband, who isn’t Jewish, and also has a better filter. He sat politely on the couch, ignoring both the Jew outside and us, the Jews inside.

“Look, there’s another!” S, my other daughter, screamed excitedly.
At almost precisely the same time, doors up and down my aunt’s street opened and out walked dark suited men, some in beards, some not, some in felt hats, some not, all in dark suits, and all moving quickly with a purpose.
“What is going on? Where are they all going?” S asked.
“It’s Friday evening,” I said. “Where do you think they are going?”
“Oh, that’s right, to synagogue.”
“It’s like the Exodus,” E said.
My aunt arrived home soon after and discovered us on the couch,  all still facing the window and watching like it was a television show.
“What the hell are you all doing?” my aunt asked as she walked into the room. “Why are you staring out the window?”
“We’re Jew watching!” S announced.
“Don’t say that!” my aunt said. “It sounds horrible. Besides, there will be even more tomorrow morning.”
“They aren’t being rude, “I told her. “They’re just excited. We all are. It’s not every day we get to see orthodox Jews flocking towards shul.”
“Well, it happens here all the time.”

She put down her things and gave us proper hugs and kisses. The sun set and we went about our evening, having dinner and getting settled for the night.
The next morning, my aunt got up and started making breakfast for all of us. “Bagels okay?” she asked me. “I have lox and whitefish salad too, and some cream cheese.”
“Oh, I wish you didn’t go to all that trouble for us,” I said cautiously.
“You don’t eat lox, do you?” she said.
“Um, no.”
“And the girls, they don’t either?”
“No, they don’t,” I told her. "Neither does my husband."
“Well, then whitefish salad is out of the question. I wish I had known before I bought all that fish.”
“Me, too,” I said. “We just don’t get exposed to a whole lot of real deli food in our town. We do have a good bagel shop, but that’s about it.”
We put the bagels in the oven to warm them and went in the living room. Sitting on the couch, watching the morning walk to services, were my children.
“What are you doing now?” my aunt asked them.
“We’re watching more Jews,” said E.
“Can’t you say something else? You make it sound like you’re at the zoo,” she said.
I noticed the plethora of bird feeders in my aunt’s yard. “Maybe they can say they’re bird watching?” I suggested.
That’s how I made it worse .
For the rest of the day, the Sabbath for many of the residents of my aunt’s neighborhood, the orthodox Jews enjoyed visiting each other and the beautiful weather outside. Women in wigs or with covered heads, their many young children around them, walked along the sidewalks, their husbands greeting each other warmly. The children ran freely from yard to yard, playing in their old fashioned clothes, the boys in yarmulkes, the girls in skirts and dresses.
And every time we happened upon another family, one of my girls would yell,” Look! A bird!”
By Saturday afternoon, my aunt had had enough. “Look, girls, you need to be more tolerant. They aren’t bothering anyone. It’s their day of rest. Sure, they might dress funny or walk in the middle of the street, but they have their own customs, and you need to not criticize them.”

“They are being tolerant,” I tried to explain to her. “They are thrilled, actually. These are girls who are one of maybe three or four Jewish kids in their entire school. They can’t fathom a whole neighborhood of Jewish people, let alone Lubavitch orthodox ones. They aren’t being prejudiced. For them, it’s like a trip to Israel. You get to see them every week. This is a once in a lifetime experience for the girls.”

At which point S shouted, “Look, a whole flock of birds!”
If you asked my kids about their trip to Baltimore, I bet they would talk about the orthodox Jews before they mention anything else. And isn’t that what travel is all about? To see new sights, meet different people, and have new experiences? If we wanted to see a bunch of people driving to church on Sunday, we would have stayed home.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Hit the Road

I’m home from a whirlwind tour of the Mid-Atlantic States, and boy, are my arms tired. My legs, too, and back; let’s just say I missed sleeping in my own bed. Yes, it was spring break, and we, or rather, I, decided my family would take a road trip to Baltimore, my home town, then on to Washington, D.C., before finishing up at my friend MJS’s house for a quick one night visit. Three towns in five days, which is doable, even for the inflexible, such as my family.

 I had to remind the people who live with me more than once that we were on a trip, not a vacation. A vacation involves relaxing and doing nothing. A trip, on the other hand, has a definite sense of purpose. My husband wanted a vacation, to the beach, but in early April, the beaches of South Carolina aren’t much of a dream destination. Early April in South Carolina is either too hot or too cold, with lots of pollen sprinkled on everything like demonic fairy dust. On the beach is wind, the kind of wind that sends a sheet of stinging sand so forcefully into you that tiny grains will be embedded in your flesh until summer.
So instead of staying in-state, we took a nine hour drive, door to door. We all prepared for the long trek differently. I printed out directions for all the stops we planned on making, as if my husband’s car, his phone, and my phone did not have a GPS. I would like to point out, however, that in the process of driving, all four of our directional sources offered different routes. Even the electronics can’t agree on how to get somewhere. My older daughter, E, decided the best way to get ready was to forget to charge both her phone and her iPod, ensuring the most boring nine hours ever spent by a thirteen year old in the 21st century. She was actually forced to look at the window at the countryside as we drove, like in the old days before television.  And S, my younger daughter, packed an assortment of movies and her cheapest pair of headphones, ensuring that the rest of us could not listen to the radio any louder than a mouse’s fart without her complaining to turn it down.

The girls settled into the back seat after fighting over who had to sit behind their father. My husband is above average height, 6’2”, and prefers to have plenty of leg room when riding in a car. That means whoever has to sit behind him had better be a double amputee. Unfortunately for my daughters, well, they inherited Daddy’s height, so neither one of them wants to be the one trapped behind him, lest they must fold their long limbs origami style before trying to wedge themselves in the back seat. The only person who can fit comfortably behind him is me with my stubby legs, but I was driving the car, so ha ha to the rest of those mouth breathers.
I really can’t complain though, because as much as my family doesn’t like a road trip, they are all pretty good on one. In the thirteen years we have had children, we have only had one vomit episode, and that’s with regular drives to the mountains. No one has a Chihuahua bladder either, so it’s not like we have to stop every fifteen minutes. It could be so much worse, and yet, we never seem to remember than when it’s time to get on the road. Instead, we all bicker and whine so much that by the time the car pulls out of the driveway, none of us is speaking the rest of us.

Here are some observations of the highways between our home in South Carolina and our arrival in Baltimore:
People don’t just talk slower in the South; they also drive slower. The concept of moving with traffic is not that important. North Carolina drivers never had the idea of the fast lane emphasized in their driving education, so the left lane is as good as any place to demonstrate that Southern drivers drive like they talk.
Then all hell breaks loose in Virginia. People suddenly have found a sense of urgency, which is in direct conflict with the troopers’ sense of establishing public order. If I could offer you one piece of advice, don’t drive over eighty miles per hour. Not only do the troopers frown upon it, but driving too fast would make you miss all the cows. Cows to the left, cows to the right. The smell of fresh cow shit filling your nostrils. Virginia is a lovely sight and smell to behold.

For thirty seconds, we were in West Virginia. I have decided that counts as a state I’ve visited. That’s thirty seconds more than I ever thought I would spend there.
Maryland looks a lot like Virginia, only with fewer troopers. And everything is either a pike or a beltway. What happened to highways and interstates? It’s like entering a country with the same language but different slang. We had to take our luggage out of the boot when we stopped, taking care to avoid our spanners and bumbershoots.

I’ve never wanted to be a long distance truck driver, but I understand the appeal. Away from your family for hours, nay, days on end, no one complaining in the back seat, the open road ahead of you, the possibilities endless. Just you and your Basset hound or a chimp to keep you company, and a five hour shot or some meth to keep you awake. All you need is a CB handle and you are good to go.
Kind of makes you want to take a plane instead, doesn’t it?